


haunting hours

by acertainslantoflight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, First War with Voldemort, Grief/Mourning, Halloween, James Potter & Lily Evans Potter Die, M/M, October 31st 1981, POV Remus Lupin, jily, metaphorical gore, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 21:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21308587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acertainslantoflight/pseuds/acertainslantoflight
Summary: It is the week of Halloween, 1981.  Remus is being haunted by ghosts both dead and alive.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	haunting hours

**Author's Note:**

> Here's some angst for the anniversary of James and Lily's death. I know the days of the week would be different in 1981 but I figured it worked better using the 2019 days (plus I wrote each day as it actually happened on the week of Halloween).  
Sorry for any discrepancies with canon.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Monday **

Remus wakes with a pit in stomach, although that is not unusual. His leg is stinging, probably infected though he can’t find the point in getting up to wash it. He searches his mind for whatever Order bullshit it is that he was supposed to do that day, comes up with nothing. He isn’t trusted, he knows, and he knows why, but whatever energy he could muster to care about the injustice of it has long faded away. So he is not given missions, he not tasked to write reports. He is put aside, out of mind.

He finds a letter from Peter on the kitchen bench that tried so hard to sound like he cared that it left a bad taste in Remus’ mouth. The same as every other letter he had sent over the past few months. He wonders exactly when it was that Peter became a bad taste.

There is barely any food in the cupboards, but his stomach gave up protest at that a while ago. Remus wonders, for longer than he would like to admit, about where Sirius is. He knows he could be dead; the idea of it will not dislodge itself from his mind, no matter how hard he tries to dig it out. Somehow, he feels like he would know if he were though, would feel it in his bones, feel it change the structure of his body. These are irrational thoughts, he knows but he entertains them anyway.

He tightens the wards around their house. Lets the feeling of the magic course through his body and remind him that he is alive. There is still a pit in his stomach, a lump in his throat. _This is war_, he thinks, _of course I’m on edge_. He feels as if pure dread has replaced the blood in his veins, but he builds a wall in his mind to prevent himself from giving it room to grow, to take on life. He dutifully spends the day staring at the kitchen table, old and rotting, thinking of James and Lily. He misses them, though they are not gone.

**Tuesday **

He wakes with the same cloud of dread hanging over him, clinging to him. He tries to pull it off, carefully, thread by thread, but it is sticky, persistent. He has bought cereal and eats it dry, focusing on the crunch of it under his teeth in lieu of anything else. Any questions he might accidently ask himself. A_re James and Lily safe? Where is Sirius? What is wrong with Peter?_ These questions are blowflies buzzing in his ears constantly; he must not stop swatting them away.

There is an Order meeting today. Remus is surprised to have been told to come. They have moved locations again, the fourth time this month, to a worn down barn house somewhere in Essex. It seems far too creaky to Remus to be sufficient in keeping their cover but he supposes nowhere is sufficient when there is a traitor in their midst. Remus notices immediately that Sirius is not there. Perhaps he is late. Perhaps Remus should prepare himself for the worst. The dwindling number of people is blaringly obvious to all of them, alarm horns sounding in everyone’s heads. _Who will be left next time?_ Remus wonders, another blowfly.

Sirius does not come and neither does Peter. Neither are mentioned in the obituary though, which allows Remus a short moment to breathe before his throat is closed up again. What is mentioned _is_ the traitor, again and again and again. They must be vigilant, they must be aware, they must be cautious. The constant flickering of eyes towards him is not lost on Remus. Vigilant. Aware. Cautious. He does not think any of these things will save them.

He returns to an empty house. Turns on the radio and listens to the names of the dead pour out. He lets them wash over him, muddy his skin, turn his tongue sour. He feels the need to avenge them deep in his core and yet he does nothing. He knows he is not the traitor, although he feels like one.

**Wednesday **

Sirius is next to him when he wakes up, sprawled across their bed as if he has always been there. Remus pushes any emotion he might have felt deep down into his chest cavities, he cannot afford to feel anything. He must not allow himself a reprieve. He reminds himself that the pain he feels now would be nothing compared to letting himself love a traitor. Still, Remus studies the contours of Sirius’ face with something close to precision. He wishes he could do this without longing, wishes he could feel repulsed or at the very least, unfeeling.

He sits outside the house, watching the bugs crawl on the dirt, feeling more like they are crawling over his skin, into his throat, sitting in his lungs. He should not be outside, he knows, but it has become too difficult to breathe inside the house, like there are a thousand people inhabiting it instead of two skeletons. It is warm for October, too warm. He feels the familiar dread returning, constricting his chest.

And then Sirius is next to him. Remus is surprised he is making contact. His heart squeezes.

‘Halloween tomorrow.’ Sirius speaks, as if this is conversation.

Remus nods. He has never liked Halloween, too many werewolf costumes and jokes about full moons. They sit in silence. Remus contemplates if the air actually is really easier to breathe out here. ‘I thought you might be dead.’ He offers, he thinks this is not really conversation either. Funny how they forgot how to do that.

‘Not yet.’

Remus decides to take this as comforting. No, they are not dead yet. ‘Have you heard from James and Lily recently?”

Sirius tenses, it feels as if the air does too. ‘A while ago. They’re okay. They’re going to be okay.’ He says this with a steel edge to his voice and Remus knows he is trying to convince himself.

Remus draws a line in the dirt with his shoe. _And what do you think we’ll be?_ This is the question he wants to ask. Instead, he says, ‘what are you doing tomorrow then? Halloween and all.’ He does not expect an answer, or a real one at least but he supposes he should try at conversation, even if he doesn’t remember the mechanics.

‘I was going to see Pete.’ Short, but oddly real.

‘Okay. Tell him I said hello.’

‘Yeah.’ Sirius stands, worn too thin from the effort of speaking. He breathes the autumn air deep, and looks at Remus properly for what he is sure must be the first time in months. ‘We’ll be okay too.’ Sirius speaks the words with half confidence, half prayer. Remus notices fear in his eyes. He understands. He is fearful too.

Remus wishes he could believe him. ‘I hope so.’ He wants to feel hope more than despair.

**Thursday**

He thinks of James and Lily when he wakes up, he might have dreamt about them but is not sure. He _is_ sure it was a nightmare but most of his dreams are so he should not read into it. Sirius is gone again. Remus should be used to this by now and yet he still feels the absence of him like a ghost in his bed.

The ghosts do not leave him. All day, he feels as if he is meeting them with every move he makes. They are at the stove, sitting on the couch, lying on the cold bathroom floor. They are the names from the radio; they are Marlene, Dorcas, Peter, Sirius. James. Lily. He imagines himself as one of them. He wishes for the loneliness to leave him. Except it stays, just like the pit in his stomach which fees big enough to swallow him whole.

The sky has darkened but he does not know the time. He remembers the knocks he would get at the door of his parents’ house when he was a child. He wished he could join them then, now, he wishes they would come at all. He wonders how he has managed to hang on to so much false hope for such a long time. There is inexplicable fear clawing at his skin, leaving scratch marks, incisions from its pointed teeth. It is unrelenting and he does not know why. Today is no different from any other fucked up day of this war. Except.

A screeching owl arrives at his window much later, how much later he does not know. It is desperate, panicked, almost. It drops the letter from its beak as soon as the window is open and does not stay for a reply, seemingly as if it has more important correspondences to make. It is McGonagall’s owl. Remus is emptied of all emotions when he sees it. All expect deep, burrowing dread which, this time, he does not push away. It feels warranted, necessary. The letter is a crossbow in his hands, the words, arrows.

He cannot read them all. His vision has blurred, his limbs have given up their posts and he is nothing. There are phrases that stab at him, over and over again. He is bleeding out. _James and Lily killed. Sirius in custody. Peter dead. Voldemort defeated. Twelve muggles. Harry in care of his Aunt, James and Lily killed, Sirius in custody, Peter dead, sorry, sorry, sorry. _

There have been many moments in Remus’ life when he has felt his world splintering, cracking down the middle, pieces falling off. This is the first time it has broken completely. There is no recovering. There is no processing. He wants to believe this isn’t true but he has seen too much, has seen too many people die, felt his life on the brink of breaking too many times to stop himself from believing. He feels it so deeply inside of himself for it to be false. He is choking or crying or shaking, he cannot tell which. His head is screaming, blocking out all the sounds of the Earth. It is only him and the places where his friends were. How can absence have so strong of a presence?

He feels as if he is watching his blood sink into the carpet. There is pain like he has never felt before and he has felt so much pain. He watches his organs rip out of his skin; his heart is the last to go. He is cracked, splintered, torn open and yet it is alive. What did he do to be alive? Why should he be deserving of life if James and Lily are not? But he does not feel alive. He is nothing and so are they.

**Friday**

He does not wake up in the morning because he has not been asleep. He has not had any nightmares because being awake is enough of one. There is no pit in his stomach because he has drowned in it. There is more to this story, more words of the letter and in the newspapers and on the radio, which his brain cannot stand to think about for more than a few seconds at a time. A war has been won but he does not feel that it has. There has been an end to misery but he knows that there has not. To the world, these are facts. To Remus, they are naiveties. He burns the newspaper and throws the radio at the wall. Keeps the letter.

This is not the day after; he no longer exists in time. He is scared, though there is nothing to be scared of anymore. He half expects there to be a knock on his door, to receive some comforting words, a warm hug. He isn’t even sure if he would want them if they came but it doesn’t matter, they do not.

He does not try to eat, or move, or sleep. He knows this must be mourning but mourning is supposed to be something everyone experiences and he thinks that if everyone had experienced this then he would never have a seen a smile. He is not allowed a moment of reprieve, he does not think he ever will be. He imagines the moment they died in bright vivid flashes that sting his eyes and create craters in his mind. He imagines the moment Sirius spoke the words of a curse in blinding images that open up his heart. He feels like a traitor, though he knows he is not.

They are saying the world is better now, but how could a world be better without James and Lily and Peter in it? What world could be better, in which Sirius Black is murderer? The world has come alive. It has replaced their lives with its own. The heart of the Earth beats where theirs do not and how could that be forgiven?

**Saturday **

He wakes thinking of Harry. He thinks of the moment he was born and the moment he first smiled. When Remus held him for the first time and when he said his name. He thinks of Lily, tears on her cheeks in the Common Room, talking about her sister. He remembers Lily searching for her at her wedding and trying to keep the sadness out of her eyes when she did not find her. He is so angry and so alone and he needs so badly to hold that child.

His chest is on fire as he writes a letter to McGonagall. He knows he sounds weak, desperate pleading, but he has forgotten how to be anything else. He wants to hope, but he has tried that before and it has only hurt him. He dare not try it again. He writes but he does not expect anything.

_I fear his Aunt and Uncle are not equipped to care for him properly. I know I am not his Godfather but I care for him very deeply. I would do everything in my power to look after him. I love him. I love them. _

Remus knows this is not enough. Knows the scraps in his cupboard and the fact that he is not a relative but instead, a monster are too difficult to ignore. He knows he is not truly fit to raise a child but he has to try. He has to do something. His guilt is overwhelming. He may as well have killed them himself because what good is being innocent if he could not protect them? What good is being innocent when he has left their child in the hands of people who are far further from family than himself?

He is a monster. A monster cannot care for a child. So he must stay in his house, which feels far more like a freezing ocean than a home, drowning, pushed further down with every second, cracking his head on rocks on the way for he cannot be saved and neither can Harry.

**Sunday**

He knows he must have slept only because he remembers waking. He wakes and he is in love and he feels this not as joy but as a pain in his chest. It is Sirius’ birthday. He had not planned anything, bought no presents or even thought that he would see Sirius at all but the absence of him now is so much worse than he had prepared for. It should not be. He is a murderer. A serial killer. He should not be missed. And yet…

Remus’ love for Sirius has always been like a physical thing, wrapping its arms around him, holding him, squeezing him. There were times when he leant into it, felt it as comfort, warmth, others when he tried everything he could to pull it off, even when there was no hope of it ever detaching itself. Still, he tries this now, now it is different. Now, Sirius does not deserve his love.

Guilt follows him all day, a ghost, always right beside him. He does not think it will ever stop being there, making sure he is aware of how fucked up he is. Unlike his love, he does not try to shake this off, this, he deserves.

A letter comes from McGonagall at some point; again, he has no sense of time. It is full of apologies. ‘Sorrys’ he cannot stomach, he feels them digging under his nails like dirt. For a moment, he tries to breathe, tries to pretend that this is okay; he knew it would happen so it must be okay. He won’t be able to cope with the alternative.

He realises that his plan has failed. Distancing himself from Sirius in fear of him being the traitor has not made this any easier, has not spared him any pain. He is still in love, still feels his heart clench at the thought of Sirius’ name, still wants to feel his skin against his own, see his eyes, and hear his laugh. He was an idiot for thinking he wouldn’t. He has been far too in love for far too long, despite there were so many times when it was the last thing he wanted. If he couldn’t escape it then, how could he escape it now? _The other times he wasn’t a monster,_ he thinks. _The other times it didn’t make me a monster for loving him. _

Which is not to say it was all on him. Sirius was cold those last few months, barely spoke even when Remus did make an effort. Remus supposed this was because he thought he was the traitor, now he knows there was evil in his core; he was rotting, from the inside out.

And that is the problem. People do not become evil over the course of a year. Sirius must have had that rot inside of him all along, had the potential to become a Death Eater for all that time. And still Remus fell in love with him. So what does that say about him? He feels like this is a crime as well. He feels like he should be in Azkaban too, although how much of a soul the Dementors would have to feed on, he does not know.

Remus does not know where to go from here. There is nowhere. There is no one. There is no crawling back up from the hole he has been thrown into. He loves all of them so deeply, and he knows he will carry that love with him as a weight for the rest of his life. He has been drained of everything he had. He is hollowed out. He is empty and sad, and so, so lonely.


End file.
